New adventures

So it’s been a while, but I’ve been busy! I started working with a new client on a mural – a jungle scene in his bathroom. Here are the first round of photos – still plenty of work to be done…


This was somewhat challenging as jungles are all about depth and layers, which is hard to portray on a flat surface…especially in a bathroom with varying heights and widths to the walls. But I enjoyed myself and I look forward to continuing to build and expand this vision! It’s also very nerve wracking as I paint things I’ve never attempted before – like tigers and parrots. But if you don’t explore, you’ll never discover, right?

wonder what’s wrong with me

One time, instead of getting ready for school (8th grade, I think), I locked myself in the bathroom and tried to kill myself. I laid at the bottom of the bathtub as it filled up, not resolved but terrified. I don’t think I was scared of dying, I was scared of myself…that I could have that much hate and anger in me, to take a life. I’ve thought of suicide before and after this episode, but this was the only time I ever actually attempted it. Thankfully I screamed my intentions to my dad, who was furious and broke down the door. Strangely, I don’t remember what happened next.

This is the problem I have with writing a memoir, or any story. I have gaps in my knowledge of the events. I think it has something to do with the bipolar, but it’s very inconvenient.

I don’t know why I’m thinking about this today. Probably because I’m still trying to figure out exactly what went wrong in my novel writing last night.

i can’t hold onto me

Here I am, in the aching place that hypomania left behind. This one was so brief, but blazed hard and burnt me up last night. I had to take an impromptu two hour nap just to recover, and today I still don’t feel quite right. I miss having the inspiration, the excitement. Now all I have is longing. I look at my writing notes and wonder if I will ever be able to write this fucking novel. Maybe it’s just not in me. Maybe it will only happen in the short moments of manic glory.

I thought that medication would make me perfect. That the pills would carve out all the doubt and self-loathing and replace it with confidence and commitment to the things I want for myself. Today I feel like all it’s done is made it hard to cry, and instead of big episodes that sweep through the household like a windstorm, I have just these little earthquake tremors. And that must be life.

I journaled last night. Just a page or so of whining. I don’t think it helped anything but I didn’t feel like I could draw or paint and I certainly wasn’t able to write with my heart broken up over yet another failed novel attempt. And what do you do when nothing is possible? When nothing helps?

Perhaps I need to go back to reading about my condition, studying the exercises that are supposed to give clarity. I could take my doctor’s advice and run around in the sunlight for a while, but lazing about and eating sounds much more appealing…

sometimes weird art

Sometimes, all I’m capable of is weird art. It begins with a concept that’s more of a feeling than anything else. Then I attach color and shapes to that, and then I try to put it all on the canvas. I would tell you that I’m usually between 30-60% successful. I’ve never had a piece of art turn out exactly how I pictured. Sometimes I like it anyway, and sometimes I am seconds away from painting over it. Or both.

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Right now it’s both.

a bird caught in a dreamcatcher

So I tried to break myself out of the creative prison of my last failed painting, and ended up with something weird and ugly. In letting out my feelings onto canvas, I suppose that was a success. But it’s nothing pleasant that I would hang or ask anyone to buy. I paper mached the canvas in some misguided effort to create texture, and then started to paint a bird caught in a dreamcatcher before the painting suddenly decided it wanted to be an abstract. I tried to follow the instinct and ended up wrist deep in this:

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It actually wouldn’t be so weird if not for the paper mache…?

No. It’d still be weird.

Afterward I made Rolo Chocolate Chip Blondies — the obvious choice for an evening of pouting. (After an impromptu run to the store in our pajamas — thank you, baby! <3)